Leave Out All the Rest
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: Life keeps on dropping bombs and we keep score. Liebgott/OFC. Rated T for language and adult situations.
1. Light in the Storm

A/n: So, for now this is just a one-shot but it might turn into a series of vignettes (I just have a ton of research ahead of me if I want to dive into WW2 lol) so we'll see! If you could please leave me some feedback at the end (esp. fact checking stuff, because WW2...yeah def not my historical specialty lol) (or even recommendations for other good Liebgott stories!) I'd really appreciate it. Thanks so much! Happy reading.

**Leave Out All the Rest**

**Prologue: Light in the Storm**

_Tell me why we live like this, we are broken,  
__What must we do to restart our innocence  
__Give us life again, 'cause we just wanna be home  
__We're at war, keep me safe inside your arms  
__Like towers, tower over me…  
_-'We Are Broken' by Paramore

Nuenen, Holland 1944

Sometimes, when it's someone from second platoon, he helps drag one of the boys in. Their legs half blown off, backs resting on the splintered remains of a barn door. And Joe, hauling the upper left corner like a pallbearer. Can you imagine being the kid on the barn door? Thinking, this is what it'll look like when they carry me out of the chapel,…this is what's waiting for me back home. It's a wonder they don't just ask us to put them out of their misery right there. If you think about it, the one person who should be issued a shotgun in the army, is a nurse. I'd bet my life if you walked into any ward on the continent, all of them could point out at least three guys off the top of their heads who are in dire need of a glass of whiskey and a round to the head.

"You're not getting enough to eat." I murmur absently, as he stays behind to help me lift this latest grenade victim onto a bed. It's obvious in the arms of his coat, filled with more air than skin tissue. And in the gauntness of his face, cheekbones a little more prominent than normal.

"I'm fine." He grumbles on a breath, heaving the door over to rest against a wall.

"Is it bad? All I feel is the blood…oh God…Just tell me nurse, am I gunna die?" The soldier, Warren I think is his last name, pleads and whimpers while I try and stop the bleeding. It's slow going because there's blood everywhere (and it's not just Warren's), who really knows its exact origins.

"You're gunna be just fine, soldier. Keep your eyes on the ceiling, count the beams for me. That's a good man." I tell him calmly, softly as I fix gauze to his knee. The cap is splintered, hanging off his leg at the mercy of fractured cartilage and ripped up muscle tissue. A few months ago this would have made the muscles in my stomach clench, the reflex in my throat gag hard until triggering bile. Not anymore. I should probably be grateful that I've developed this wall, but it just makes me feel like a monster.

I try not to think about the monster inside of the man I love as he stands just two and half feet away. The one who's doing the same thing to the German sons and fathers that they just did to Warren. It's easy to make excuses for him, given his heritage and the God-awful things they tell us about what Hitler's plans really are for most of the world. But at the end of the day there's no getting around the fact that Joey today would not fit perfectly inside of the boy I met in England. (God, I miss England.) Maybe he's better because he's gotten a few scars, learned lessons that have forged him into a man. Chances are good that he's worse, because he's a little less human than before.

Like I can talk. It's the same for me. People stop becoming bundles of dreams and love and desire and laughter. They start becoming targets and stitches and bullet holes and morphine injections and Krauts and blood transfusions. Breaking the reality down to goals that don't have a face or emotions or a family, it's the only way we get through every minute here. It's the only way we survive.

"What happened?" I look up at Joe, not sure why he's still standing on the other side of the bed (it should be obvious but I've gotten so used to in and out, here then gone). Warren's morphine is finally starting to kick in and he's quickly falling out of consciousness.

"Northeast lines on the far side of the woods. We cut through, but they're probably regrouping now. Those Kraut bastards'll be back by nightfall."

He doesn't understand that I asked him a medical question. His brain is still in that frame of mind where it knows only mission objectives and mental maps, trying to keep up with the score as it changes around him second to second.

"Where's Roe?" I'm hoping Eugene will at least be able to fix a proper splint on this kid. He came in with two pieces of wood strapped to his leg by a belt. I want to undo it myself but I'm scared because my hands are always shaking, so setting fractures isn't exactly my specialty. I talk a good talk with my calm voice and steady gaze, but my hands haven't stopped shaking since I saw Joe board those first planes back in Uppotery. It's not a good trait for a nurse to have, but the army would take a trained chimpanzee at this point if it knew which veins to stick the I.V. in.

"Ah, he's…" Joey's hand waves absently, shoulders shrugging in that oversized coat as he fits a cigarette between his lips (they look chapped). The lighter cap snaps before he shoves it back into his pocket, a move that he's clearly had far too much practice perfecting. "You know, he's around."

Typical Joey answer, and I have to fight a smile. It's not fair that the only times we see each other anymore are when someone's dying or he's got a damn shell in his neck or the Germans are lighting up this tiny, poor excuse for a town with fireworks.

"I have to get some supplies from the back, Corporal, why don't you help me." I'm afraid to call him by his name in the ward. Getting personal is a slippery slope here and you learn to resist it. He follows, nodding silently as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, breathes out a small cloud of smoke while tapping the ash onto the floor. He has no idea how hard he's making it not to just pull him against me by that stupid coat and kiss him in front of the entire station. I've never been a fan of the fact that he smokes, but I keep my mouth shut just because of how much I love to watch him do it. It's selfish, but it's not like he's gunna stop anyway. And with the shit he sees, no one really has the right to ask him just yet.

When we get to the supply closet, I can already see the hope in his eyes. 'Help me in the back' is our code for: I saved some scraps of food or swiped a few cigarettes off a dead soldier. Digging around, I pull a box of supplies up onto the table and he comes around to my left so that I'm between him and the door. Not that they would fire me or anything (we're already understaffed as it is), but still. The last thing I want to do is get Joe in trouble or encourage the other nurses to steal from dead men.

"I know it's not much, but…" The baguette is eight days old and the cured pork is starting to smell questionable but it's already in his mouth. Living in this town (with its one main road and lone chapel) has its advantages. The locals dote on us nurses like we're angles. I suppose for some of them, we are. They don't see our boys enough to give them much, but we know they would if they could. I figure there's no reason why we can't act as a sort of middle man. Kissing his cheek, I whisper before grabbing the box and heading for the door. "I'll be right back."

There are even more men in the ward now and the chaos grabs me like a riptide, refusing to let go even as everything under my skin keeps trying to tug me toward the supply room like a compass needle struggling to point North. Most of the nurses stay calm, even as hardened soldiers fall apart under our hands. I keep waiting for the building to shake, for mortars to start going off. And then I'll turn and see Joey's black hair headed for the door as he runs out, that ratty coat still hanging off of his body. Just like always.

By the time things calm down enough, I'm weary from too many adrenaline highs. I have no idea what time of day it is, but I'd sell my soul just to collapse to the floor. In my exhaustions I fail to notice that the shades on the supply closet door and windows have been pulled. When strong, cold hands pull me inside, locking the knob behind me, I don't even fight. This is so stupid, I have to get back to work, but I don't have the strength or the will to push him away.

His chapped lips taste of salt and the chill in the air outside and dirt. Fisting his coat in my hands, I try and pull him as close as possible. The scent of sweat and blood and gunpowder fill my nose and I try to kiss him deeper, looking for the taste of our first kiss. English rain and aftershave cologne and a whole different kind of cold. The full-bodied kind that means no harm, that doesn't cut into your skin like it does here. But that seemed to be the only thing I could find as my hands slid beneath his jacket, hooked around his neck, combed up through his thick, dark hair. Frozen clothes, frozen skin, frozen dogtags. And all in a way that seemed they would never thaw.

"You're so cold." I mumbled across his jaw line. As we backed into a table, the muscles in his arms grew taught around me, lifting me up. His fingers, still like ice, slide up my thigh and take the white skirt of my uniform with them.

"I'll be warm in a couple of minutes." He chuckles, low in my ear as his nose nuzzles the warm skin of my neck, taking such deep breaths you'd think he was trying to get high off the scent of my soap and shampoo. I guess maybe, in a way, he was.

"Joe…" My eyelids flutter closed and I can feel my heart stuttering, my lungs contracting of their own accord almost too deeply for me to keep up with. It's good to feel his name on my tongue again, as his slowly thawing fingers try to undo the buttons of my dress. Suddenly my mouth is against his again and it's almost as if we're doing battle. I probably should have seen it coming, I know it drives him crazy to hear me sigh his name under any circumstances (let alone when we're locked in a dark supply closet). But his mouth still takes me by surprise.

However, that surprise is nothing compared to the mortar that hits ground someplace not quite far enough from the south side of the building. My body jumps away from his as I look around trying to gauge where it came from. The man in front of me doesn't so much as flinch and when my attention finally falls back to him he's just looking up with big, brown eyes. If you woke a kid up on Christmas and told them that Santa died before he could deliver the presents, you couldn't get him to look more disappointed than Joe did right then. His face didn't show much of it because he'd learned to hide most of his emotions pretty well. But those god damn eyes…

"This is the part where you leave, right?" I mumble, my voice sounding almost too empty for sadness as I comb his hair back with my fingers. I still hadn't figured out why they let him keep his hair so long. But I sure as hell wasn't complaining.

"And then promise to come back, but never do." He nods, and I can almost feel the guilt radiating from him as he forces himself to back off, throwing his gun back over his shoulder. Over the top of the ward another bomb howls in agony, knowing that it's falling toward its death. Landing southeast of us, I feel the ground shake, glass bottles and needles clinking together all around us.

Jumping down from the table I do up the buttons on my dress as he goes to the door. He stops there, watching me and waiting.

"I _will_ be back."

Forcing a smile, I close the space between us and kiss him with as much love and passion as I know how before pulling back. Letting go of a sigh, I reach for the door and undo the lock, pushing it open. All around the ward nurses are scurrying between the rows of beds, trying desperately to take cover. Their shouts echo off the cold cement walls, some in English, most in French. Compared to the solace of the supply closet it seems like an entirely different world. As soon as I cross the threshold of the door, that other world, the one full of nothing but Joe's fingers on my skin, my arms locked around him, his nose nuzzling into the crook of my neck, the taste of salt on his full, chapped lips will slip away. Sure, he'll come back around. In about two weeks, maybe just one if the Gods are feeling particularly gracious.

"Go." I urge him softly, because he doesn't seem to be able to move, even as the ceiling shakes from the explosion of another mortar on the main road. As he starts jogging towards the door, gun in hand, I crouch in the entryway of the supply closet. Folding my knees against my chest, I watch him pause at the steps, taking in the scene around him. He analyzes the spread and makes a decision to run out there in less than two seconds. In between fear for my own life and the longing for his skin that's already creeping up on me, a little surge of pride wells in my heart. He's smarter than he realizes, so much braver than he knows. Just before disappearing, he turns his head and meets my gaze. One moment he's throwing me a self-assured wink and a cocky smirk that's supposed to be comforting. The next, he's gone.


	2. Swept Away

**A few quick notes for continuity's sake**: 1) Joe was a barber, not a cab driver. I'm not sure how the cabby rumor got started, it seems kind of obvious that anyone giving out haircuts before a drop would have to have been a barber lol 2) Joe never actually lived in San Fran, but right next door in Oakland. However, the image is just too cute so I ran with it lol 3) I know I make Nixon sound like a womanizing manwhore. Let's not kid ourselves ladies, he kind of was lol But I don't want anyone to mistake this for Nixon bashing. He's one of my absolute favorite characters ever, let alone in BoB I was just trying to keep him in character

Alright, I believe that takes care of house keeping! Upward and onward. Huge thank you hugs to everyone who reviewed. This is for you. Enjoy ;)

**Chapter One: Swept Away**

_Could it be any harder to watch you go, to face what's true  
__If I only had one more day, well I'd jump at the chance  
__We'd drink and we'd dance and I'd listen close to your every word  
__Like sand on my feet, the smell of sweet perfume  
__You stick to me forever baby, and the only thing against us now is time  
_- 'Could It Be Any Harder' by The Calling

Nuenen, Holland, October 1944

I didn't even see the courier come in. The entire ward was a blur of broken arteries and flying skirts. Screams of horrific pain and desperate cries for help seemed to rock the building like an earthquake. The axis of it all went off kilter when the letter landed in my hands. Suddenly, even as everyone in the station continued to move with rush of new patients, I was at a standstill.

_Dear Nurse of the Red Cross,_

_We appreciate your dedication to the efforts of the Allied forces. Need of your services has arisen elsewhere. Please have your belongings packed and ready by 0700 hours tomorrow morning. Thank you for your cooperation._

_The United States Army_

The longer I stared at the words, the more they stayed the same. How could they expect me to just…leave? The men here knew me, they needed me. How was I supposed to move on without seeing them through to recovery? Or abandon this post knowing that more wounded soldiers would be coming in, men I trusted, men I cared about. How could I leave Joe behind?

Not that I really saw him a whole lot now. But at least I know where he is, at least I know that if something happens I was only a few miles from the lines. Within a few hours someone will come running with the news, or he'll be dragged in and my mind can rest easy with the knowledge that my hands are doing everything they can for him. But for all I know I'm being sent back to France, maybe even England, where it's impossible to keep track of any one army grunt. They're just serial numbers back home. Just a folded flag in a mother's arms.

Suddenly, a nurse runs past me carrying a box full of plasma tubes. She turns to glance at me over her shoulder, mumbling an apology in French without stopping. But I'm already on the ground, my letter soaking in a pool of blood that hasn't been mopped up yet. Rule number one of the Red Cross: don't even try to stand still in the middle of your ward. Either keep up with the current or you'll get dragged downstream with all the other dead fish. Grabbing a rag from the bedside table closest to me, I wipe up the mess in a sort of daze.

Sent back to England? Since when has a free ticket home begun to sound less like a relief and more like a punishment? At what point did this life of exploding buildings and gushing arteries become the only one I wanted? When had I fallen so in love with Joe that hell beside him seemed better than heaven alone?

As I stood, I barely felt the cold, slickness of the blood soaking through my skirts. It belonged to a young man whose arm had been sliced open with the bayonet of a gun, tearing open one of his main arteries. The sad part was it had been an American bayonet. He would probably die before the night was over, which explained why no one had bothered to mop up the blood yet. Everyone else was running around trying to save the few lives they could.

I probably should have changed. Or at least found a different apron to tie round the front of my skirt so as not to scare the soldiers laying all around me. They're already convinced they're half-way to hell, the last thing they needed to see was a nurse dressed like a butcher. But the thought didn't even cross my mind until I'd started packing later that night. All I knew in that moment was that I needed to find a way to say goodbye to Joe.

"Sam?…Sam!…Samantha, where are y- OH!" Rule number two: Don't run in the ward. Someone is always carrying a needle or a pair of scissors. The best way to get an injury probably had less to do with the front lines of the war and more to do with accidents at the Red Cross. Thankfully, all Sam is carrying that day are a stack of freshly washed bedpans. But make no mistake, those buggers still hurt when they fall all over you.

"Ow…" Rubbing my sternum, I get up off the floor for the second time that day, leaning over to help her gather the pans back up.

"Sorry," She mumbles as her hair falls into her face. I want to tell her not to be silly, that it had been my fault for running around and calling out her name. But I don't have time for pleasantries.

"I need to find Lewis. Is he still at the city gates directing traffic?" If you were looking for Captain Nixon, Sam was the best person to ask. I trusted her to know only because that was how deeply in love with him she had fallen. It was obvious that the hope in her eyes, the smile at just the thought of him would never amount to anything real. Lewis was the worst sort of man to arrest your attention because his only true devotion was to whiskey and his mother. But he was charming and handsome and usually did the right thing by his men. You couldn't blame the poor girl.

"Yeah, why?" The realization that I'd have to tell her about the letter before the night ended hit me like a kick in the stomach. We'd met in France back around June and had been in the same assignment groups ever since. How was I supposed to explain to her that she was being left here alone? No more English-speaking confidant. No more French translator on hand twenty-four-seven. No more partner-in-crime when it came to sneaking whatever small luxuries we could to the boys. Chances were good that between the constant threats of death and being reshuffled across the European continent, Samantha and I would never see each other again.

For a moment I just stared into her hazel eyes, trying to memorize the way they mimicked clouds at dusk. In the end all she got out of me was a pathetic shrug and a low mumble.

"I just have to ask him about something."

Her eyebrows crease sharply as she shifts the bedpans around in her arms. It's obvious that I'm lying and even more obvious that she's angry about it. We never keep secrets from one another. What would be the point? We risked our lives, shared the weight of death and ripped people's guts open on a daily basis. There are no monsters under my bed that don't creep under hers as well. Finally, she forces her scrutinizing gaze away from me, continuing on down between the rows of beds lining the ward in silence. With a deep breath, I swallow my guilt and hurry out to find Nixon.

I probably shouldn't be surprised to find him with his legs propped up on the dash of his jeep, a canteen full of God-knows-what in one hand as he waves troops in with the other. Had the sun been out, he probably would have had his aviators on as well. But as it stands, the sky has hosted nothing but cloud-cover for almost two weeks solid.

"Captain Nixon?" As I come up to the side of the jeep, he keeps waving cars through, directing them towards the showers, supply tent or ward.

"Not tonight sweetheart," Is all I'm offered in reply, without so much as a glance. "Damn Germans are up our fucking asses. Powers! Find some wheels for that truck out on the backlines. If they don't get here soon we're gunne be in some deep shit." Saluting his commanding officer, Shifty ran off. I can already tell he'll just lift them from one of the Dutch cars around town. That's one of the perks of war. We don't have to answer or apologize to anyone.

Taking a step forward I try again. Had I not been in such a hurry I might have laughed at his assumption that I wanted to sleep with him. After all, according to Lewis, doesn't every nurse?

"No, Captain Nixon, I"-

"Darling, I'm serious. Gimme a rain check. Toye, take that soap over to the showers, have Luz count it out, I have a feeling we're still short."

"_Captain_." This time my voice shreds the cold air without the patience or understanding his rank deserves. Not that I would get punished for it. Technically the rules of the army don't apply to me. "Can I talk to you please?"

"I'm starting to get the feeling I don't have too much of a choice." He sighs wearily, taking another swig of whiskey. And then, as his slightly blurry vision finally focuses in on me, a wrinkle pulls up his nose in disgust at all the blood on my hands and clothes. "Jesus Christ, what'd you do? Raid a slaughter house?"

"This is from one of your men, sir. Third platoon, I think." That sobers him up a little and he gives a small nod of understanding, signaling for me to continue. But I can tell from the way his eyes swivel to check the road that I needed to hurry.

"I know you're busy, but I need a favor"- Taking another swig from his canteen, his eyes squint a little as he interrupts me once more.

"Hey, aren't you that nurse that's always stealing cigarettes for Liebgott?"

This time it's my turn to sigh, though the fact that he associates me with Joe makes the side of my mouth twitch with amusement.

"Yes, sir."

"James, right? Something James."

"Rebecca." I tell him, pretty sure that neither of us have time for this. Then again, Nixon always has been a bit odd. But he's a captain, regardless. There are only so many times in one conversation that I can shut him up.

"Rebecca." He nods slowly, letting his thoughts get away with him. "That's sort of funny. Wasn't she the mother of Israel?"

"Yes, sir."

He just chuckles, taking another sip of whiskey from the canteen at his side.

"And she played favorites between those sons of hers."

"Yes, sir." I nod, hoping he'll get over the irony _before_ I get picked up for my transfer.

"Well, I'll make you a deal Rebecca. You play favorites with me next time you find a pack of cigarettes and I might just let you have that favor."

Smirking, I pull out the four fags I'd tucked into my pocket earlier that morning and drop them into his palm as discreetly as I can.

"A Red Cross nurse always comes prepared."

"So I see." Lighting one of them up immediately, his smile could be that of a ten-year-old in a candy shop. Taking a nice, long drag, he let his eyes flutter closed as relief uncoils within his nerves. Cigarettes are free for soldiers, but between the scarcity of supply drops and the amount of stress the boys are always under, they're still considered a rare commodity. Letting go of a deep breath, Lewis waves a few more cars through before glancing down at me again. This time his voice is the embodiment of warmth and friendship. "What can I do for you, Rebecca?"

"Is Joe on patrol tonight? At the gates? I need to speak with him."

"Liebgott…Is Liebgott on patrol…" Mumbling to himself between drags, I can tell he's flipping through a mental file, trying to remember. Finally the answer comes to him, and to his credit he even sounds a little sorry. "Last I saw him, he was headed back to CP with a few POWs. I'm pretty sure he's gunna be up there for the rest of the day helping interrogate."

I wonder if the disappointment is as obvious on my skin as it feels.

"Um, do you think…" Swallowing, I take a deep breath and forced the muscles in my throat to unclench, blink away whatever saltwater tries to gather under my lashes. There's no way I can leave without at least saying goodbye. "Do you think I could see him after? Just for a little while?"

Shaking his head, Nix lets out another puff of smoke.

"I'm sorry kid, but we're back on the line tomorrow. He's gunna need his rest. Look, don't worry. We're probably gunna pull back in about three or four days. He'll be all yours for a good thirty-six hours while we regroup."

"I won't be here that long, sir. I'm being reassigned first thing in the morning."

When he looks down at me this time, it's as though I'm a ghost who he thought he he'd been imaging. A ghost who has suddenly become real. Maybe he heard the strain in my voice as I tried to keep a storm full of tears at bay. Maybe he empathizes with me because he knows what it is to be ripped away from the people he loves. Or maybe it's just a side effect from the cigarettes and whiskey. Whatever the cause, he looks more human then than I have ever seen him. For a glimmer of a second, I can just barely make out whatever beauty Sam sees in him. In that moment, I sort of love him too.

As soon as the first cigarette hits the ground, a second is between his lips. Waving another truck through as he lights it, Nixon mumbles to me without meeting my gaze.

"You really care about him?" The question catches me off guard but I don't have to think about the answer.

"Yes, sir."

"You planning on staying by him even after the war. After he's killed dozens of men and been ripped up a few times himself?" This question is even less expected, but again I nod.

"I'm not afraid of a few scars, Captain."

Still looking out at the road, he takes a slow drag from the cigarette in his hand.

"I can't make you any promises. But I'll see what I can do."

Before I can stop myself, my arms are around his neck and I'm pressing a grin into the shoulder of his uniform.

"Thank you, sir! You won't regret it." As I start back towards the ward to gather my belongings, Lewis' voice calls out to me.

"Don't forget, Rebecca. Next pack of strikes you see, alright?"

Laughing softly to myself, I shouted back over my shoulder.

"They've already got your name on 'em, Captain." And with a small, rather informal salute, I turn back towards the cathedral we're stationed in and head up the road.

* * *

Stepping out into the courtyard of the cathedral, I pull my sweater around me tighter in a vain attempt to ward off the tiny licks of winter chill already permeating the Dutch air. Moonlight reflects off of the stone path and as I crane my neck back to inspect the sky, my eyes found stars for the first time in weeks. The quiet seems to bring back whatever sense of hallowed ground the cathedral must have had before Germany's invasion. Before the pews had been cut up for firewood and the marble floors had ever tasted blood. As I continue to stare up at the sky, my footsteps slowly take me across the garden and into the shadow of St. Peter's chapel.

Joe's already inside, lighting what few candles haven't been stolen by the villagers with his lighter. The amber light flickeres across statues of saints, their faces hardened but full to the brim with pity. Cherubs dance across the ceiling, reveling in their heaven of good and peace. Every window holds a different scene from the New Testament; Jesus' life as a collection of tainted, jagged shards of glass.

All day long I rehearsed for this moment. My hands shook as I packed and just the idea of putting food into my stomach made it churn with anxious waves. But I had worked through it, pieced together all the right words so that I would know exactly what to say when this moment came. But now, standing in front of him, I don't even seem capable of words. Suddenly the truth I've been carrying around in my pocket all day feels overwhelmingly real. The tears are welling up in my lashes before I can even think to stop them.

"Hey, hey, don't do that." The unusual tenderness in his voice only makes it harder to keep my emotions dammed up and, as his arms wrap around me, I lose all control. Heavy sobs wrack my shoulders and rib cage, hands fisting angrily around his jacket. Though he's probably under just as much stress as I've been these past few weeks, he stays calm and patient, cold fingers warming quickly against my clothes as he rubs my arms and back.

"Shh, it'll be alright. Believe me babe, it's all gunna be just fine." Murmuring into my hair, I feel his mouth press against my head a few times as he continues to hold me. Around us, the sad eyes of Mary and all her patron saints look on, knowing that every word falling from his lips is a lie. Still, I should be stronger. It's an embarrassment to my upbringing, to my certification as nurse of the Red Cross, that I can't keep myself together better than this.

"I'm so sorry." I mumble, wiping at my eyes even as I'm not exactly sure what I'm apologizing for. Maybe it's that I've just made a blubbering idiot of myself while messing up his jacket. Or maybe it's the fact that come dawn, I'll be abandoning him. My hands try to blot at his tear-stained jacket with my handkerchief, but strong fingers closed around my wrists before I can accomplish much.

"Beck, stop. _Stop_. It's fine, leave it." He insists, brown eyes burning into mine. "Look, just sit with me."

If anything aggravates me, it's being ordered around like a child. Especially by young men. But not Joe. There's always the slightest undertone of sympathy strung up in his words, letting me know that this isn't about control or arrogance. He just wants to take care of me.

As we sit down in the front row of the left aisle, he reaches down to fumble around in his pack. The effort results in a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and I can't help myself from laughing ever so softly under my breath as I watch him wrestle with the cork.

"Swiped this from CP before I left. Can't have mass without communion, right?" He quirks a playful eyebrow, pouring a generous amount into the canteen that had been attached to his belt.

"It would be an utter sin." I agree, smirking as he hands me the canteen. The scent of a full-bodied, French red wafts through my senses and I can swear a buzz is already setting in. Wiping away the last bits of saltwater from my eyes, I drink hungrily, realizing only then how dehydrated I must be. We don't have much spare water at the ward, and even if we did, it isn't as though there's a whole lot of spare time to drink it in.

It's sort of funny. Even after all these months away from home, I can still see my mother's disapproving gaze behind the dark of my eyelids.

'_Did I raise you to guzzle like a horse?'_ She sneers. _'A lady will never gulp, but only sip.' _

Of course, a lady would probably never stick her fingers in someone else's artery to dam up the blood flow either. But hey, who's judging?

"So first thing in the morning, huh?" With his arms spread out across the pew and lips stained with wine, Joe's eyes are fixed wearily on the image of Jesus carved into the crucifix that hangs above the altar. Blood seeps from his hands, his feet, his head. The sword piercing in the side of his abdomen looks fresh. Any good nurse would tell you he should have been dead by then. But his eyes are wide open and staring right back into Joe's.

"I don't even know where I'm being stationed." I shrug, averting my gaze down to the canteen in my hands. "They just dropped this in my hands and told me to get packing."

Untucking the envelope from my apron pocket, I hand it to him. By that time, the words can probably roll off my tongue from memory, I've stared at them so many times. Joe just chuckles under his breath, taking another swig from the bottle in his hands as he scans the ink-stained page. He seems completely unphased by the fact that it's been soaking in blood for the better part of the day.

"They make it sound so cheery." He shakes his head in disbelief. When he speaks next, his voice is all theatrical depth and commanding power. "Thank you for your services but Hitler is sticking his moustache in _other_ places it don't belong and they have become our priority."

Feeling like I should be kicking _myself_ out of the chapel, I try to stifle the laughter bubbling up in my throat. But the wine is strong and Joe isn't finished.

"Just follow the stench of Arian perfection and aftershave into the hills. If nothing else you'll find a trail of Allied soldiers in their wake. Don't be surprised if some of them are American. In fact, most of them will probably be paratroopers. Second battalion of the five-oh-six E, just you watch." The wicked grin on his face is contagious and I can feel my whole body warming from the alcohol. There can't be anything back home as wonderful as this.

As I come down from my own amusement, I take a few deep breaths and then another sip of wine. Letting my eyes play over the alter, I stare into the flames of the candles Joe has given life to. My mother always told me it was dangerous to look directly into any source of light, that it would damage your retina, maybe even make you go blind. But I kind of like it, the warmth is comforting. And I can think of far worse punishments than never having to watch a man die again.

"I know you're not supposed to talk about it but…I hate not knowing why I'm leaving or where I'm going. I feel like I'm walking blindfolded up a mountain. There's got to be something about this that they've told you, Joey."

For a handful of seconds he doesn't answer, just kisses the bottle again, continuing his staring contest with the Son of God. Then he takes a deep breath and in that tiny sound I can hear how worn down he's become. If I had my way we'd curl up on these benches and just fade away into the candlelight and peaceful silence. As it stands, he has to get back to the boys soon and I need my sleep for tomorrow.

It still hasn't sunk in that after tonight, I'll probably never see him again. No matter how many times I try and force myself to accept the truth, there's a threshold of potential pain that I refuse to cross where he's concerned. I'll deal with it all in the morning and over the next couple of months. Maybe even for the rest of my life. But for that night I just need a little ignorance and his skin so close that I can feel the body heat coming off if it in waves.

"We dropped into Holland to get control of the dykes, the bridges, so we could cross the Rhine and push Hitler's troops back into Krautland." He explains, voice quiet and low. Almost hollow sounding.

"Right." I nod, waiting for him to continue. To explain what the hell that has to do with my reassignment.

"It's not workin'." He sighs, leaning forward to rest his forearms across his knees. Taking one last sip of wine, he sets the bottle on the floor to free up his hands. I can only watch him fidget with his knuckles and palm lines for so long before reaching over and lacing our fingers together. The warmth sets in immediately and in spite of what I know we're up against, I have to smile, even if just a little. Touching him, knowing for sure that he's really beside me safe and in one piece, never fails to calm my nerves. It's like everything that's right with the world begins at the edges of where our skin meets.

"So, we're leaving Holland?" From cold sponge baths out of buckets to the incessant screaming of dying men all around me, there is no doubt in my mind that I hate living here. But I certainly don't want to leave. Not if it means abandoning the Dutch people, who have been the most reliable, faithful and generous locals we have met during the entire campaign. Not if it means letting the Germans move further south until they snuff out every resistance movement they can find. Not if it means being separated from Joe.

"Not we. There's a dyke in Arnhem, the boys upstairs are hoping that if we take that there might be a chance that we can liberate the rest of the area. But if we keep plunging into the lines like this, we won't stand a chance." His eyes stay on the floor, tracing the grain of the wooden planks that piece it together. Though he isn't looking at me, I can feel the pain of what tomorrow meant for us in the simple way his thumb roved back and forth across my skin. That was one of the reasons we worked so well. Joe was terrible at saying how he felt. He'd charge fearlessly into the line of fire, but he was a hopeless mess against the battles that waged within himself. I didn't need words from him though. Just a simple glance or gesture and I understood. Like we spoke some sort of secret language that didn't even exist.

"What if you don't take Arnhem?" It's not that I doubt Joe, but any one of a million things can go wrong on a battlefield. Grenades going cold, gun shafts locking up, enemy spies getting an unexpected edge. Victory would be easy if we could actually prepare for it, but there's no dress rehearsal for fate.

"Ah, don't worry about that." Looking down, I can see the dirt caked thick in the lines of his skin, under the whites of his nails. I'm sure a little bit rubs off onto my own skin as he squeezes gently but I don't mind. As long as he's with me tonight, Joe could throw us both down into a puddle of mud and I still wouldn't be capable of getting upset. "Leave the Kraut boys to us, you just keep yourself safe and warm down in Tillburg."

Tillburg? I was sure I'd heard of it in passing. One of the resistance strongholds maybe? Or a former Allied command post? My brain doesn't seem capable of hammering down any one possibility. Holland is just a blur at this point, a constant state of adrenaline highs and lows. What's so important about Tillburg? I never get the chance to ask. Like I said before, Joe and I have sort of an unspoken rhythm between us. Words are seldom required to know what the other needs.

"It's one of the towns we liberated, a few weeks back when we first dropped. Germans put up a pretty good fight though, had the entire town on lockdown. Half of them starved to death, or are on their way. There probably hasn't been a real doctor in there for months. They need you more than we do." Even as his head bobs in a gentle nod, he doesn't sound so sure of this last fact. More as though he's still in the process of trying to convince himself that it's true. I'm sure he's right, I'm sure those people are desperate for food and antibiotics and clean water. But that doesn't change the fact that my heart is here in Nuenen.

"I wish I could stay." The words leave my mouth as a whisper as I run a finger back and forth over his knuckles. The skin is rough and dirty. A hint of a smile picks up one end of my mouth as I think, I just described the boy himself.

"The Dutch are good people." He shrugs, glancing up at the cross over the altar again. "If you have to leave, I'm glad it's for them."

It's not that Joe doesn't have a sympathetic heart, or that he doesn't genuinely care about anyone suffering at the hands of the Germans. But I can hear everything that's hiding under his calm indifference._ What about me, god damn it. I need you too. Haven't they taken enough already? _

"Don't you go getting injured again." I mumble before I can stop myself, a slight edge of frustration covering up whatever helplessness I'm feeling. "I can't stomach the thought of another nurse putting her hands all over you."

Looking over at me like he can't decide if I'm the most wonderful thing he's ever known, or the most ridiculous, his smile is like cotton candy to my eyes. His amused chuckle like toffee to my ears. Smiling quietly to myself I trace the shape of his teeth in my mind, his full lips curled back in the most beautiful way.

"I'll do my best." Offering a mocking salute, he keeps smirking. "Can't make any promises though. You on the other hand. You look out for yourself, you understand? Be selfish, put yourself first, steal if you fuckin' have to, that's an order. I'll be useless out here if something happens to you."

"Somehow I doubt that." I scoff, not believing him for a second. "You're not exactly the grieving type. I'd have to come back and haunt you just to see what you'd do to the Germans."

"Uncle Sam would have to keep me locked up." He smirks to himself, "I'd be a fuckin' madman."

Taking a deep breath, I untangle our fingers and curl into his side, bringing my legs up beside me on the pew. With a heavy sigh, his arm comes around me, pulling my body closer, if it's even possible.

"Any other direct orders while I'm away, Corporal?" My voice is soft, playful. I can't help wondering if we'll ever be like this again. If my defenses will ever fall for anyone the way they do for him. It's a difficult possibility to entertain.

"One letter every day. Nothing fancy, just a few lines. Just enough to hear your voice in my head." His lips are soft as they kiss my hair, "Can you do that for me?"

"I'd do anything for you." I murmur, realizing only then from the sound of fatigue pulling down my voice, that my eyelids are falling closed. I'm absolutely exhausted. My body really didn't have the energy to meet up with him like this in the first place, and now I'm paying the price. A voice in my head screams, _I don't care. I'll just stay here all night. Forget the Army. Forget the Dutch. Just let me have this. _

"Then stay." His voice is a whisper but it floods my senses like a squad of bombers flying overhead. He's so good at hiding this part of himself (the vulnerability, the fear, the need) that it's easy to forget it even exists. When it finally surfaces, I'm always caught off guard. I respond the only way I know how, falling back on the pretty pictures I used to paint for him in Aldbourne. Back when we had time to lay around after making love and romanticize about the future.

"When all this is over, I'm gunna find you again." I promise, "And I'll follow you to San Francisco, where we'll find a beautiful townhouse apartment on some quiet street. We'll always have the fans on because it'll be so warm and the freezer will be full of ice cream."

"I miss ice cream." He mumbles, a soft smile evident in his voice.

"We'll have every flavor you can imagine. And whipped cream and chocolate sauce and little chopped up nuts."

"We can't live offa sundaes, sweetheart." He chuckles this time, "Not forever anyway."

"Which is why you'll teach me to make challah and matzah soup."-

"Ah, and cholent. God, every Friday for the rest of my life. I can't think of anything better."

"And you'll have a little barber shop just around the corner from our apartment, close enough that I can walk down to bring you lunch and coffee every day."

"And I'll make so much money you'll never have to work a day in your life." He swears, laying another kiss on my temple. "Just make babies with me."

My laughter echoes loudly through the rafters and Mary looks down from the pulpit disapprovingly. It's obvious we've begun to wear out our welcome. The night is getting impatient and both of us have places to be come morning.

"Sounds like heaven, baby." He sighs roughly, reading my mind once again and shifting away from me in the pew. As I fix my skirt, Joe extends a hand to help me up, grabbing the wine bottle from the floor soon after. I give him back his canteen and he gives me back my hand.

"It will be." These silly daydreams make it easy to forget the heartache that's waiting just around the corner. But if I believe in anything, it is those promises of sunshine and steep hills. Trying to fold laundry as miniature Josephs and Rebeccas chase each other around the house. Fridays spent cooking for the Sabbath. Joey coming home to me every single night, hands no longer calloused from handling guns but scissors and electric razors instead. He was right, heaven will have a tough time competing with all of that.

My fingers thread through his dirty, beautiful hair as he kisses me at the open chapel doors. His lips, like the rest of him, never seem to get close enough and when he pulls away, it's too soon. With a steady, deep gaze he has me rooted to the spot even as I watch him cross the threshold of amber light flooding the church out into the moonlight of the courtyard. Everything out there seems to loom darker and more oppressively than before. Still, I keep my head held high as I sneak back into the ward and try to remember our promises. Try to stay strong. But I can already feel myself breaking.

* * *

The next morning brings with it that sick, empty feeling I always get in my nerves when waking too early. My skin is cold, my stomach nauseous. Running through a mental list of possessions, I realize there isn't one I wouldn't give up for the chance to stay in bed. To stay in Nuenen. Gathering my things, I notice that Sam's bed is empty, the sheets made up. She must be on shift already, I think to myself, trying not to dwell on the fact that I'll most likely never see her again. That I'm leaving her here to fend for herself against the all too alien sounds of French and Nixon's womanizing charm. I've never hated myself more than I do that morning.

There's a jeep waiting for me at the gates, Harry Welsh in the driver's seat. He looks exhausted and I feel bad for being the reason he was dragged out of bed this morning. Not that there's a war going on or anything.

"Morning Lieutenant." I smile warmly, throwing the duffel bag on my shoulders into the back of the car.

"Morning Miss James." He offers back, faking a smile as best he can this early in the day. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on you, would ya?"

"Sorry," I shrug as he extends a hand to help hoist me into the passenger's seat. "Gave my last handful to Captain Nixon yesterday. Guess he didn't feel much like sharing?"

Returning my smirk with a bit more sincerity this time, Welsh shakes his head and shifts gears.

"Never does, spoiled son-of-a"-

"WAIT!" A loud, clear voice rings clear across the main road, all the way down to the village gates. My guts jerk around inside me as the jeep breaks to a halt and Harry reaches down to shift the gears again, this time, much rougher.

"What is it?" He shouts down the road at a figure clad in white, running towards us in the bleak, overcast light of daybreak.

"You can't leave yet!" The figure demands and I realize instantly that the voice belongs to Samantha. Jumping out of the jeep, every fear that I might have missed her, that I might never have seen her again, catapults me down the road in her direction. Before I even know what's happened, we've collided and her arms are tightly around me, her thick auburn hair in my face. "You unsightly wench, how could you leave without saying goodbye to me? Without even _telling_ me?"

Pulling back, she wipes away a layer of saltwater from her eyes with the back of her hand, glaring at me all the while.

"I only got the letter yesterday." I explain, still overwhelmed with relief that she's here in front of me. Good-bye sounds so trivial, but when you're faced with the prospect of never having that little bit of solace, it's nothing short of devastating. "I wanted to tell you but…"

"But you never did." She reminds me, eyebrows still knit together in offense, arms now crossed over her chest. Taking a deep breath, I have no choice but to nod. "What am I supposed to do here by myself? Who am I supposed to talk to about everything I see? What I supposed to say when I see Joe? How am I supposed to understand what anyone is _saying_?"

Her frustration has caught up with her, a flood of streaming consciousness now pouring out of her mouth lacking restraint. Not that I can blame her.

"You're getting pretty good with your French, though." I shrug pathetically, not sure what else to say. French isn't going to let her cry on its shoulder after she's forced to amputee a man's leg while he's perfectly conscious due to a shortage of morphine. French isn't going to make sure Nixon keeps his distance from whatever vestiges of innocence she has left. French isn't going to get her through this war.

"That's not the point." Her features fall, clearly unamused. And she's not the only one.

"Let's wrap it up girls, we need to get going. CP is expecting us." Welsh is tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel of his jeep impatiently. I'm sure the COs at regiment don't care too much about a stray nurse here or there. But I'd bet my life that there's a truck waiting to take a whole gaggle of us down to Tillburg. If I'm not on the truck, then I'm unaccounted for. If I'm unaccounted for then they assume I'm dead. If I'm pronounced dead I'll probably have to hide out for the rest of my existence and live with the fact that I'm a bloody coward. It's best if I just catch this truck.

"We'll see each other again." I blurt out, pretty sure even I don't believe that, but knowing I'll regret not having at least tried to reassure her. "Just try and stay out of trouble."

She should know by now that 'trouble' in this case is a euphemism for Lewis Nixon's bed, which is something I'm not exactly keen on spelling out in front of another officer. Sam's pretty clever though, I trust her to catch on. As she nods, a fresh coat of tears make her eyes go glassy and her arms come around me once more.

"I'll try to get as many cigarettes to Joe as I can." She mumbles thickly into my hair, trying to perfect a balancing act that has her wobbling between tears and deep breaths. I'm sure that as soon as the jeep pulls away the act will fall apart and her tears will crash over her like a wave. Part of me wishes I could stick around to offer my shoulder and a handkerchief. Most of me knows I couldn't stand to watch her usually calm, collected manner shatter to pieces in the middle of a public street.

"Thanks, love." I force a smile back, shuffling closer to the jeep as we pull away. Somewhere over my shoulder, Harry coughs, making a little sound of impatience in the back of his throat soon after. I don't even look at him, I'm afraid to tear my eyes away from Sam because I know that the minute I do, I'm finally accepting this. I'm officially breaking away from everything I've come to care about. "I'll write you as often as I can."

"I'll write back as soon as I know where you're stationed." She nods, a single tear breaking through the threshold of her eyelashes and falling to the earth. I know then that it's time for me to get out there, it's only fair. Welsh wastes no time after I've climbed up into my seat for the second time and as we pull away, the only thought that keeps me from crying as well is one of stocking a San Francisco apartment full of ice cream and challah.

* * *

By now a lot of you are probably wondering just what exactly the deal is with Rebecca. How did she meet Joe, why did he fall in love with her, what's her story, etc. I promise those details are on their way soon! A few reviews would greatly help the process along ;)


	3. With the Tide

Just a few notes: 1) Some of this may be a little confusing because there's so many facts floating around that weren't stated explicitly in the show but that I've found in Stephen Ambrose's book, David Webster's journals and from internet research. If you guys have any questions, don't hesitate to ask! 2) The most obvious piece of information that might be confusing is the fact that Joe was sent back to England for a few weeks after Market-Garden's failure due to an injury to his elbow. That actually happened. I don't _think _they show him in Mourmelon-le-Grand instead in BoB but just in case they do, that's not the version I'm going with lol I'll address a few other things at the end, but doing so here would just confuse you so I'll move along.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This is for you.

**Chapter Two: With the Tide**

_I watched you disappear into the clouds, swept away into another town  
__The world carries on without you, but nothing remains the same  
__Built myself a castle on the beach, watching as it slid into the sea  
__Through wars and harvest moons, I will wait for you  
- 'Last of Days' by A Fine Frenzy_

Tillburg, Holland November 1944

Their skin is gray and sunken in a little around the cheeks, drastically sharp around the collarbones and spine. It's difficult, trying to force complacency to smooth out my face. To not look scared or disgusted as they just stare back with dark eyes that seem to be bulging from their skulls. With the father taken by Nazi soldiers, only six remain here in the shadows of this drafty, Dutch attic. An eldest daughter and her newborn sister, the mother and three boys in between. The Cohens, they're called.

"How long have they been in here?" I ask, as Mrs. Anderson leads me toward the bed in the far corner. The candles flicker with the shifting air and my eyes stay on the youngest boy. His brown eyes smolder with a hollow sort of ache. The same passively exhausted decay that hovers in Joe's eyes after he's been on the line for a few days. Even as the resemblance plunges into me like an ice-pick, I don't look away. Not until we've come to the patient I was brought for.

The mother has a fever that hasn't let up for well over a week. In two seconds, my practiced nurse's eyes have sized her up. Infection, most likely post-partum, and possibly fatal if not treated soon. Suddenly, I'm glad I came. I know we're not supposed to leave the ward without field clearance, and certainly never unaided by a male doctor. But when Mrs. Anderson showed up at the station with one of the boys (who was suffering from pneumonia) and begged for my help, the callousness of regulation melted away and I was helpless to refuse her.

"Four months, a little longer than four months." If Mrs. Anderson could help this fact, I would give her hell. These children need sunlight, exercise, fresh air. They need food and clean water. Their mother needs a doctor _now_, if not two weeks ago. As it is, she had no control over the German occupation and so I can't grow upset with her. But it doesn't make the matter any less frustrating.

Falling to my knees by the beside, I pull out a rag and begin to dab at the sweat along her face. Hazel eyes, tired and heavy, lined with bags of purplish gray, flutter open as far as they can. It isn't much, and I'm still seeing more of her lids than pupils. But the pain there is clear, a wild desperation caged in behind bars of weakness and fatigue.

"When was the baby delivered?" The eldest of the children, a daughter of maybe fifteen, stands in front of the boys. She's pacing back and forth, murmuring a Hebrew lullaby as she rocks a bundle of dirty blankets. The child in her arms can't be more than six months old at best. In fact, that's stretching hope just a little too far even for me. But I can't for a second bring myself to face the possibility that she was born here, in this cold, moldy attic. That her lungs have yet to taste fresh air.

The mother tries to respond, but her throat is too dry, her lips are cracked with dehydration and an unforgiving autumn chill. Behind me, Mrs. Anderson answers again in her place.

"She had the child just two days after arriving. It was early, but the stress of losing her husband…She just couldn't stop it." There's a delicacy to the way the Dutch speak. It treads lightly and wraps around your eardrums with an exotic sophistication. I wish I had the chance to listen to it carve out words that don't make me sick to my stomach.

"I need hot water and towels, now. This woman needs a _doctor_." Shaking my head, I lift the sheets to inspect her abdomen. I can already feel my nerves steeling themselves, preparing for the worst. The mother hisses, her eyes clenching as I lift her dress, disturbing the tender skin. Along her pelvis bone is what looks like an ugly bruise, only it's raised up, swollen. A sigh flares through my nostrils as I realize I was right about the postpartum infection, specifically of the veins in her pelvis, spreading from a separate infection in the mucus membrane lining her uterus. If we don't get her on antibiotics soon, she's going to die.

I want to tell this to Mrs. Anderson as she leans over me with the towels, blue eyes scared yet hopeful. But with the children standing just ten feet away it's impossible. I can't tell them their mother might very well leave them all alone in this world. Not when the only world they've ever known seems to be out for their blood.

"Can you help her?" The old woman asks and I have to look away, busying myself with trying to feed my patient whatever hot water I can. Her body needs help flushing this out, it can't do it alone. I'm not exactly sure I can either.

"I can try."

* * *

This is exactly how the rain sounded in the spring. Just hard enough to make the tree leaves tinkle like little, silver bells. And it had been cold like this too, not needing the help of wind to make most of the blood rush from my fingers. Only then, my fingers hadn't been lonely. Curling them in on each other, I rub the knuckles softly, trying to ignore the chill that's taken me hostage in the dark, quiet attic of the hotel we've been using as a make-shift station.

No matter how cold it gets, I can always stand it for just a little while longer. It's worth it to sit here like this and feel as though my memories are real around me. To feel like Joe is somewhere down on the street below, instead of back on the outskirts of Nuenen, looking up over a trench and firing into the dusk. I can picture him on the ground there, black dirt smeared across his cheeks and neck, that concentrated look darkening his eyes as he takes aim. The clarity of it should probably be disturbing, but it's the only comfort I have.

Lettie, a nurse from the Scottish highlands, knocks the door open with about as much grace as a cow. Soft noises of discomfort sneak through the air as she hugs herself, hands trying to create friction along her arms to ward off the cold. As she walks over to the armoire, her heavy shoes drag along the wooden floorboards and my daydream dissipates under their weight.

"What have you got the windows open for, love? The draft is coming in something fierce." She's shivering, but I'm half-convinced it's just for effect. After having been down in the ward for the past five hours, her body temperature should be through the roof. At last count, there were almost one-hundred-and-sixty people crammed into the lobby and first floor of this hotel alone.

"No reason." I mumble, ducking my eyes away from the rain out of embarrassment. "I'll close them in a minute." Which is a lie. But she won't know that, she still has seven hours left on her shift. Even if she didn't, I probably wouldn't close them. I can't stand to look at the world through a pane of dirty, bubbled glass right now. I need to see the colors perfectly, need to smell the moisture in the air and the wet earth, hear the padded sound of water falling through trees and shrubs. And to be honest, after everything I've done this week, I sort of feel as though the least I am entitled to is the god damn windows open. At least for a few hours between shifts.

"Alright," She sighs, turning to offer little more than a wary glance at the door, her hands full of towels. "Just see that the rain doesn't come in and soak our beds. That straw will never dry."

As she leaves, I'm tempted to open the window on Lettie's side of the attic, just to spite her. Only the knowledge that the smell will permeate every inch of this tiny room keeps me leaning against the wall beside my bed, wrapped in a patchwork quilt handed to me by one of the Dutch women of Tilburg as a thank you gift for saving her husband's life. He'd had a chest cold from being forced to work in one of the German factories around town. It wouldn't have been so bad, except he'd developed the cough during Nazi occupation. They still made him work.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the rain, try to bring myself back into the memories. Try to block out the smell of Mrs. Anderson's attic. All those children who needed showers, and their mother's sheets that needed changing. I'd never seen anyone look so happy to get a catheter as she had just two days ago. Can't say I blamed her.

It's impossible to come home and leave those images at the door, so I'm wrestling with my mind, trying to force something less traumatic to surface for a change. With the storm outside narrating and the warmth of the blanket sinking into me, a sort of limbo between dreaming and waking finally begins to flood my senses and I'm swept away to where I want to be…

_It's late May and the gravel crunches beneath my shoes as Joe and I run into the house upon the hill, cutting off this quaint country lane with a sudden sharpness. Our laughter permeates the gray shadows inside, jolting all sense of still and quiet from the air. Rain has soaked his hair, richening the black with a new depth against his skin, pale with cold. His hands are a testament to that cold as they reach out to gently wipe the water from my cheeks, brushing away whatever stray hairs have stuck there. I can feel myself smile like a small child who's just been given an unexpected gift. Small, and probably not worth much beyond these walls. But it's all I need right then. _

_Taking his hand I lead him through the coat room after we've hung ours up on the hooks, into the kitchen. I'm hardly ever in here, as Martha, our scullery maid does most of the cooking and the actual room is separate from the main house. But I've been in here a lot the past few months, saving away what little flour, sugar and butter I could find. Setting aside a small reserve of eggs and milk in the ice box. It's taken a while, but the look on Joe's face when I tell him he can open his eyes is priceless. _

"_There wasn't enough sugar for icing, but the cake itself should be pretty decent. I think so anyway, obviously I…haven't…been able to…" At first, he's just staring at me like **I'm** the icing. And then he's moving toward me, backing me into the table that his birthday cake is happily seated upon. The rough wood of the table digs into my back as his lips do the same to my mouth. But it's still gentle somehow, still tender in it's own passionate way. This is the moment we begin, this is our first kiss._

_It's slick with rainwater, chilled like the wind blowing outside and weighed down by the heavy scent of aftershave cologne all over his cheeks and neck. His full lips feel better molding and twisting around mine than I ever imagined they could (and I had imagined it often). A million tiny flourishes of adrenaline flare up inside every cavity of my body each time our bodies brush together, every time his lips move with my own, every time my lungs take in another deep breath full of him. When he finally eases away, his pale skin and swollen mouth ache with beauty in the dark gray light of our kitchen, lit poorly by the rain clouds outside. I've never been more thankful for Sunday mass, or the fact that my parents spend all day in the city afterward. _

_Reaching down, I curl my fingers into his and lead him away from the table. At first, he looks slightly confused, though it's tempered by the mischievous glint in his eyes._

"_The best part about these old country manors…" Reaching up on my toes, I take his mouth in mine again for just a moment, tugging at his lower lip with both of mine like a playful kitten. "Is all the secret passageways." _

"_Is that so?" He mumbles as I drag him toward the hidden stairway on the other side of the ovens. _

"_Mhmm." I nod, undoing the latch and opening the panel of wall that really doesn't look anything like a door until the latch has been used to pull it out from the wall, "Funnily enough, there's one that leads to every bedroom. Even mine." _

"_That **is** funny." His eyebrows are raised now, piqued interest so clear on his features it's almost comical. And in fact, I have to laugh a little when he dashes back for the cake before taking my hand in his once more. "If I'm gunna have it, I might as well eat it too, right?" _

"_Well, I didn't bring you all this way just to **look** at it." _

_With a crooked grin, he holds the door open for me, leaning down to steal one last kiss. _

"_Lead the way." _

With a far-off look of contentment spread across my face, I drift back to the cold, barren attic around me. Glancing around at the clock, I let go of a sigh. If I want to go check on the Cohens before my shift begins, I need to get moving soon. Scooting off the mattress, I get down under the bed, grabbing one of the folded uniforms I keep there. Finally pulling the curtain over on the window to give myself some privacy, my night clothes slowly come undone piece by piece. As I work myself into the uniform laying across my rather messed up sheets, my mind drifts again before I can stop it.

"_So this is them, huh? Good ol' mom and dad." Leaning back against the headboard, his finger traces the photo frame, rubs a bit of dust off along the way. Turning away from the window, I'm just in time to savor the image of his lips taking a drag of the cigarette in his other hand. _

"_That's them. Mr. and Mrs. James." Going to the bedside, I take the frame from his hands, glancing at it once before setting it face down on the nightstand. Just having him come face to face with them, even the two-dimensional version, makes my stomach squirm with guilt. A moment later though, as Joe pulls me down into his lap, my stomach begins to flail around for completely different reasons. The only things separating us are the thin material of his skivvies, the satin and lace of my slip. _

"_And what would they say if they walked in right now?" The murmur is soft against my cheek, his nose nuzzling there as the scent of smoke makes dizzy. My eyes close from the overwhelming mix of pleasure and pain coursing through me. Having Joe this close, playing house together while my parents are away, is a kind of heaven they'll never find at mass. But I can't help feeling like a failure of a daughter. What would they do if they found us, Joe? They'd fucking kill us is what. Well, kill you anyway. Throw me out onto the street in nothing but this petticoat. Which might actually be worse. _

_Curling a hand around his neck, letting my fingers play in the dark hair they find there, I kiss his mouth in lieu of a real response. His birthday was four days ago, on the 17th. The fact that I waited until the 21st, to bring him to the house, until I knew they would be away for the whole day should tell him enough. But I suspect a man like Joe needs to hear these things out loud, doesn't like the idea of me glossing it over. If he met my parents, if he only knew the awful things they said behind closed doors about the war, about the Jews…well, he might appreciate my efforts to keep him away them a little more then. _

_Thankfully this kiss, the light scratch of my nails on his neck as I turn to face him, the weight of my body in his lap, is enough to distract him. For now. A soft growl comes up from the depths of his throat as I shift my hips, arching my spine into him and before I know it, I'm laying flat on my back with his dogtags dangling above me. _

"_You can't really be serious about depriving me of this all across Europe." He murmurs over me, voice husky with desire, eyes pinning me down with almost as much force as his body. Cocking my head to the side, I can't help the satisfied smirk that plays over my face. _

"_You want me to trail after you like a little puppy? You're going to have to give me a reason." I giggle softly, pulling me him down by his dogtags. As our mouths mold around each other's he falls beside me, pulling me with him until we're nothing but a tangled pile of legs and arms and bed sheets. _

"_Oh, I'll give you a **couple** of reasons." He grumbles playfully next to my ear, pulling me closer for a moment before letting me settle next to him. Smiling to myself, I try and chase any sign of sadness from my eyes but it's next to impossible to hide anything from Joe. We may have met just three months ago but I already feel like he knows me better than anyone else ever has, or ever will. Like maybe part of his soul used to belong inside of me, during one of my past lives, and now it's finally found me again. Too bad it's shipping off to war any day now. "I'm serious, Bec. You can't tell me you wouldn't regret losing this for the rest of your life." _

"_I already told you, I'm thinking about it." And I have been. But the idea of walking right into a war I'm not even sure I agree with scares me. All my parents ever talk about is how useless it all is, how Hitler's got the right idea anyway, how nothing happening over there has anything to do with our quiet life in Aldbourne. It's not that I agree with them, it's just that…I never even thought about enlisting with the Red Cross, about joining in the effort myself until I befriended Samantha. Never even considered leaving home for someone else's war until I saw Joe across the dance floor at the USO. Hearing it all from a soldier's perspective, an American perspective, a Jewish perspective…well, that's sort of changed things. _

"_That's not enough." He pouts, mumbling against my collarbone before kissing the skin there, working his way around my neck. Letting go of a sigh that has as much to do with my own indecision as it does with his touch, I can't help leaning closer. Despite the fight I'm putting up, I'm pretty sure I'm leaning towards him with this whole nursing thing too. I'd be lying if I tried to convince myself I could live without this. With the thought of never seeing him again. _

_It's in that moment, as my eyelashes flutter closed and his warm, rough hands begin inching up my slip again, that I feel the first cracks begin to falter the wall of my resolve. _

It's still raining when I get to Mrs. Anderson's but I'm kind of glad for it. I want to be stuck in the dark of the clouds, the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting a rooftop all day. The Cohen boys are asleep when I walk up the attic stairs, Mrs. Anderson behind me with a candle. Between not having been outside to play for months and staying up all night worrying themselves sick over their mother and the Nazi invasion, the idea that they sleep most of the day away isn't all that surprising. As my hands get busy with warm water and washcloths, I look over at them, watch their torsos swell with each breath. Their pale skin brighter than the dirty sheets laid across the floor beneath them, black hair like little mops spread out across their foreheads.

As I give Mrs. Cohen a sponge bath, tend to her fever, get her to gag down an antibiotic, I wonder how long it will be until they have something resembling normal lives again. Until they're sleeping through the night and waking in the morning to groan about school. Until they're laughing with their friends on the playground, chasing each other home down city sidewalks and eating home-cooked meals every night again. I can't imagine how long it will take before normal comes back into the lives of these little Jewish boys, who committed no crime against anyone other than being born. I know the process will be grueling, demanding, and most of all, long. But I know that it will eventually happen. More importantly, I know if it can happen for them, if they can someday find nights full of peaceful sleep and home-cooked meals awaiting them after walking home each afternoon, so can Joe.

* * *

The letters are the only thing getting me through. They don't come often, so I read them over half-a-dozen times each day. Once when I wake up and again after I've finished getting ready for my shift, another during break, once after my shift ends and at least twice before going to bed. Pretty soon it gets to the point where I have them memorized so well, I don't even need to look at them to recite the words. But by then it's usually time for another letter.

This latest one from Samantha makes me smile.

_Mourmelon-le-Grand, France  
__November 26, 1944_

_Dear Becca,_

_Finally off the front lines! But it's not all that exciting alone. I mean technically, I'm not alone. My new bunkmate is blonde and tall and an idiot. She is very French and still bothers trying to put make up on before her shifts. In short, she is everything you are not. And for that I constantly want to strangle her. The fact that Nixon is always staring at her like she's a chess game he's about to win might also have something to do with it. _

_I haven't seen Joe in some time, but I'm sure he made it to barracks. Last I saw him, he looked exhausted. I think it's finally getting to him now, the stress, without you acting as a sort of buffer between him and the war. But I gave him whatever cigarettes and food I could find out on the line and he was always grateful. Just the thought of how much you two must miss each other, how much you love each other, gives me hope. I'm so glad he convinced you to enlist. _

_Not that it's doing us much good so far apart like this. You would like it here in Mourmelon. No one's dropping mortars over our heads. We have sterile equipment for once. Everyone's getting ready for Christmas, though I'm not sure I want to be around when the celebrating starts. Two months on the line has given these men such a craving for adrenaline they start fights at the drop of a hat while on garrison duty. And heaven help us if they get near even half-a-pint of alcohol._

_Augh. I think George is back in the ward. George Luz, do you remember him? I patched him up a couple of weeks ago and he has yet to stop following me around. He keeps singing show tunes just over my shoulder, professing his love for the entire ward to see. I could die of embarrassment. I'm not sure which is worse, the fact that I have to endure it at all or the fact that you are not here to laugh at my expense. My vote is for the latter. But really, they're both quite awful. _

…_I am now the proud owner of a K-ration, lemon powder mixed snow cone. Thanks to one Corporal George Luz. I don't know why he's so obsessed with me. Cpt. Nixon doesn't seem to know either as he has yet to look at me any other way besides the smug, chess-game winning look I mentioned earlier. And we all know what that means. _

_I do hope I'll see you again soon. This whole letter writing business isn't much of a friendship. I miss you terribly and hope you're safe. But not so safe that you might be content to stay where you are for very long. Don't smile at that. You're not allowed. You're too busy moping about how much you miss me too, remember? _

_Love always,_

_Auntie Sam_

I can't imagine Samantha being romantically involved with George Luz and just the idea of him chasing her between rows of patients singing at the top of his lungs is enough to make me laugh out loud most of the time. Especially if humor should be the last thing on my mind. Most of the nurses here think I must have the soul of a devil, to be laughing around a place like this. Good thing I have Joe's letters to sober me up.

_Aldbourne, North Wiltshire, England  
__December 3, 1944_

_Bec, _

_So, the good news is I'm off the line. Bad news is I fucked up my elbow, so I'm back in the hospital in Aldbourne. Guess I'm gunna have another nurse's hands all over me after all. Don't worry. I'll hate every minute of it. _

_You don't know how maddening it is to be here without the only piece of England worth anything to me. I couldn't give less of a damn about this stupid fracture. I'd rather be on patrol every day in Tillburg if that's what it would take to get you back in my arms (broken or not). _

_At least it gives me more time to write to you. Plus the morphine here is first-class. Haha, sorry. Bad joke to tell a nurse. You know, the USO people keep coming in here singing Christmas carols for us. Or trying to anyway. Listening to it is almost as painful as my elbow right now. You should see the look on their faces when I tell them I'm Jewish, haha. That's as good as a kick of morphine itself, for at least a whole minute. _

_Being stuck in bed all day is a torture I have no idea how I'm supposed to endure for the next few weeks. That front line mentality isn't something you can shake over night. I'd rather jump out of a plane every day for the rest of my life than lay here uselessly like this. Hopefully my request for discharge goes through soon. Don't look so mad, I can see the creases on your forehead from here. I'm not gunna wait around to be sent back to fight with some random doughboys just out of training. If I have to fight, I want it to be with Easy. I'll be safe with them anyway. After all, s'not like I've been injured yet, right? _

_Hold on to those dreams of San Francisco for me. I'll be coming to cash them in as soon as I can break out of here. _

_Joey_

If I had time to get emotional between shifts and tending to the Cohens, I would have been furious. All that praying that my transfer wouldn't be to England and where does Joe end up? It reads like some kind of cruel joke.

At least I have a good number of distractions. Twelve hour shifts full of crying children and bloody coughing fits. Walks down to Mrs. Anderson's house to check on the Jewish family she's still harboring even now that the German occupation has moved out. Come home, shower, pass out. It's a wonder I have time to write Joe and Sam at all. But the army couriers and I are on a first name basis at this point.

"Good morning, Milton!" Waving as I close the post office door, I offer as cheery a smile as possible after garnering just four hours of sleep in the past full day. Mrs. Cohen's been having a rough couple of nights, but her condition is slowly beginning to improve and the chaos of the aid station is finally calming down, so I can't help but be in good spirits. "Any letters for me?"

"Just got this in from Samantha." He's handing the letter across the counter before I even have the chance to fish Joe's latest reply from me out of my satchel. But just as I'm about to trade him one letter for another, his hand goes up, motioning for me to stop.

"This is for…what's the matter?" My hand freezes, still holding the envelope out across the counter. But Milton isn't taking it.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. There's no outgoing mail to the Second Battalion of the five-oh-six."

In an instant, my sunny disposition has been torn apart, my stomach feeling as though it's dropping out of me.

"What does…what does that even mean? I don't understand." Pulling the letter back, I feel my eyebrows knit together in confused frustration. Sam's envelope sits on the counter between us untouched and Milton sighs, looking down at me in pity. Which isn't exactly helping.

"They've moved out to the line and they're surrounded. We can't get to them."

"They're paratroopers, they're _always_ surrounded." I snap back, not seeing any validity in such an excuse. "I mean, it's just Berlin, right? We should be able to get correspondence into Berlin"-

"They're not in Berlin. They're in the Ardennes Forest, in Belgium. And they're flanked on every side by tanks. We can't even get ammo in, let alone mail."

For a moment I just stare into his light blue eyes, unsure and slightly horrified. As a nurse, my first thought is always with the wounded. The aid stations and my fellow medical personnel.

"How are they getting evacuees out?" This time, my voice no longer carries a harsh bite but is instead small, vulnerable. Scared. Joe had just gotten his discharge as of a week ago. If Easy was surrounded in Ardennes, low on supplies and outflanked, he was with them. Stranded, probably half frozen to death given that it was the middle of December and not even fully recovered from that elbow wound. God, I could kill him for requesting a return to duty.

"They're not." He mumbles apologetically. But it's not enough. My mind can't even process how the front lines are supposed to function if our defense isn't getting ammunition to fight and the aid stations don't have any way to transport the wounded to HQ. Out in the field we aren't meant to do much. Stop the bleeding, get white blood cells stimulated, ease the pain. But the real stuff: surgeries, cast settings, and rehabilitation are all saved for the regimental stations in Mourmelon and Aldbourne. If the men can't get to those, there is very little hope many will survive simple shrapnel wounds let alone mortar blasts and machine gun rounds.

"What about replacement soldiers? Food? Blankets?" The more I try to wrap my head around the situation, the more daunting it's reality becomes. On the other side of the desk, Martin just shakes his head.

"Nothing is getting in or out." He reiterates again, probably confused at this point as to why I can't just accept the fact and get on with my day. Don't I have oppressed Dutch people to be tending to? The realization that he is losing patience with me strikes a chord in my already angered heart and it's all I can do not to lash out. To keep all the frustrations of the past month locked inside me. Grabbing Sam's letter, I toss my own on the counter and start toward the exit.

"Send it out as soon you can." The little bell above the door tinkles happily, almost mocking me as I sweep over the threshold. Outside, the wind stings at my cheeks again as I stand, working gloves back onto my fingers. Marching off down the street, I rip open Samantha's letter and start reading, hoping it will provide me with a few more clues than Martin had.

_Mourmelon-le-Grand, France  
__December 17, 1944_

_Dear Becca,_

_I probably shouldn't be writing this, the station needs as many able hands as possible helping to pack up right now. But I don't know if they'll even tell you the news and someone has to. I figure as your closest friend on the continent, this job falls to me. _

_I know I've been telling you for weeks now that the boys were surely going to drop into Berlin. They'd have a few months off, make the rounds into Paris, wait until spring cleared the way for good jumping weather. But the situations seems to be desperate out on the lines in Belgium. The Germans are pushing hard, giving everything they've got. Some of the men are saying it's because they're scared, because they know that this offensive in Belgium could be the difference between victory and defeat. I just think they're being their usual bastardly selves. _

_Anyway, the point is…there will be no drop into Berlin. And no one's waiting for spring. We leave in two days for a little town on the outskirts of the Ardennes forest. From what I've heard, no defensive line has lasted more than week there. My hands have been shaking all day. _

_But we'll get through it. We have to. Try to write often, as I suspect conditions in Belgium will be rather hard on everyone's morale. Keep us in your prayers._

_Love always,_

_Auntie Sam_

So that was it then. No drop into the heart of Germany. No rest or recovery between line duty. No quick and decisive attack on the leaders of the Nazi party. And now the two people I had come to care about the most were trapped in the snow and ice of some forest in the middle of Belgium. Like fish in a barrel to an enemy more desperate than ever. As I stand on Mrs. Anderson's doorstep, waiting for her to answer my knock, I can't help but wonder if this madness will ever end.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed it! Please try and take the time to leave some feedback, anything would be appreciated. A few things I'd like to flesh out but wasn't able to in the chapter:

1) The reason the Cohens still haven't left the attic is because they literally have no where to go and no one to lead them (with their mother as sick as she is). That might or might not have been obvious, but I just wanted to clarify. They'll be

2) The whole birthday cake scene has a lot of underlying details to it that I wasn't able to present explicitly. The reason it means so much to Joe is because between the Depression, coming from an underprivileged background and wartime rationing, I figured he hasn't had a real birthday cake in God only knows how long. And certainly never one all to himself. That coupled with the fact that rationing in Britain was even more stringent than in the States and that Rebecca set aside her family's most valued supplies at the time for him was essentially her way of saying 'I love you', and it was something that he understood immediately (as evidenced by his reaction lol). Bringing him to her home was also extremely telling of how much she had come to care about him because her parents carry rather anti-Semitic views (and Joe knows that, which again will be touched on later). She may wait until it's safe, but she still wants him there and takes the risk. Again, to a lot of you those things might be obvious, but I didn't want to leave anyone guessing.

Alright, I think that's all. Thanks for reading everyone!


	4. Songs of Joy and Peace

**Notes:** First of all, I'm really sorry this took so long. I'd kind of hoped after school finished up things would slow down but they've actually gotten crazier lol I'm determined to finish this story and have a lot of stuff written up, it's just a matter of bridging the gaps. Hopefully the next update won't take two months :P

Second, it's with a large amount of reluctance that I do this, but if I want the writing to be realistic then I don't have a choice. There's a fair number of anti-Semitism in this chapter. It made me sick just looking up slurs to use, let alone actually including them in something I created and I want to make it perfectly clear that nothing expressed in this chapter is meant to offend anyone. Every word is used purely for creative purposes. I apologize in advance if anyone _is_ offended. If anyone needs definitions please either PM me or search Google.

Huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed! Happy fourth of July weekend to my American readers! Enjoy ;)

**Chapter Three: Songs of Joy and Peace**

_It's the season of possible miracle cures  
Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown  
It's the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention  
It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart  
Of feeling the full weight of our burdens  
It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind  
And knowing we are not alone in fear  
Don't forget I love you, I love you  
_- 'The Atheist Christmas Carol' by Vienna Ting

Tillburg, Holland December 24, 1944

Carols echo through the streets so loud you can't escape them. The ward swims with warmth, candlelight, the mingled scents of pine and roasted pigeon. For a while I sit in my room, rereading letters, trying to block out anything that even remotely feels like Christmas. It doesn't seem fair this way. Joe in a forest someplace without so much as K rations or ammunition to defend himself. Sam in some crowded cathedral or school house, up to her knees with injuries that are quickly turning fatal, dead bodies that have no place to be buried. And me, in a hotel with a hot meal and fireplace waiting downstairs. The thought drives me mad with injustice until finally, I can't stand the walls around me any longer. Grabbing my coat and whatever spare food I can fit within its pockets, I start out into the night.

It's snowing lightly and the streets are quickly growing slick with it. Bells toll every few blocks in the chapels and cathedrals. The open doors are full of warm candlelight and ethereal echoes of voices being lifted unto the Lord. There is so much reason to sing here now that the Germans have finally been pushed out and somewhere, in a distant corner of my being, I _am_ happy for the Dutch. But my eyes can hardly bear to turn and look, let alone stop or listen. It rings too familiar of Christmas at home. Of the last time I saw Joe. Keeping my eyes ahead of me, I carry on.

The chill that breaks out across my skin is comforting because I know this is how the men must feel in the forests of Belgium. This same night air is the only voice for miles in Ardennes, the same overcast sky their only blanket. But Tillburg is no forest. It's impossible to miss the advent lanterns hung up in every window. The enormous pine tree decorated with holly and ribbons at the center of town square. The wreaths hung on every street lamp. You'd think it was the first Christmas in a hundred years. With a grim smile, I climb the steps of the Anderson's front stoop, realizing it must feel that way.

Surprised to see me, Mrs. Anderson offers me a place in the living room. Peeking in I smile softly when I notice two of the Cohen boys playing on the floor there with beat up tin soldiers. In the dim, warm firelight they could actually pass for something like healthy. I would love to go and sit with them, to make up stories about their figurines and laugh by the fire. But I'm here for their mother. Thanking Mrs. Anderson anyway, I head upstairs.

Dinah, the eldest daughter, is sitting at her mother's bedside, helping her eat what she can. Though Mrs. Cohen is sitting up, her skin is still terribly pallid and there are lines of fatigue lining her eyes. I'm relieved, for this is a tremendous improvement from just a couple of weeks before.

"Prettig Kerstfeest." I smile at both as warmly as I can, setting out the food I brought on the bedside table. It isn't much, but Dinah's eyes light up like a lark's at the first hint of spring. Between her siblings and mother, I doubt there was much Christmas dinner left for her. As she thanks me profusely in perfect English, my smile swells alongside my heart.

This is what being a nurse of the Red Cross should be about. These people are the reason I was meant to enlist. I just didn't realize it at the time. Though that time feels as though it could be just a haunting dream or a memory from my past life, the images burn bright in my mind as I sit and tend to Mrs. Cohen. They refuse to dim or blur and letting them in is painful, but I can't seem to stop myself.

_Aldbourne, England __March 1944 _

_The dancehalls get overheated fast. Between slow running fans, heavy crowds, rivers of alcohol and nonstop dancing, it hits you over the head like bricks as soon as you step off the floor. Suddenly, the air around you isn't moving and everything feels heavy. Each lungful of air seems like an accomplishment. But even before I get halfway through my glass of water at the bar, vengeful hunger pains for more are wrapping around me like vines. _

_Laying a few pence pieces on the bar counter, I whip around and take one last deep breath, eyes ablaze with the dim, burning glow of the dance floor. And then, just as I'm about to take my first step, the world implodes. Each head of perfectly coifed curls, all the stiffly pressed uniforms, every swirling skirt glides apart for a handful of seconds, giving me a dead shot view to the wall on the other side of the club. It's a little darker over there without the stage or house lights shining overhead, but I see him there. Back against the wall, hunching a little as he lights a cigarette. The dark of his eyes glows with its embers as he takes a drag, lifts his head to laugh at something one of his friends said. Even in that dim light, I can make out the paleness of his skin. The contrast of thick, dark hair and sharply angled features. _

_It's not that I fall in love with him in that moment, but begin to feel a black whole open up and suck me in. It's that I know I'm going to, whether he loves me back or not. It's that, in that moment, I desperately **want **to fall in love with him. _

"_Who is that?" I murmur to Sam as she comes off the dance floor, breathless and laughing, smiling over her shoulder at a tall, blonde man with ghostly blue-eyes. It's only on account of her incessant begging that I even snuck out tonight in the first place. Every man in this room would agree with me, it's impossible to say no to Samantha. After making her promise him at least one more dance before the evening is over, this latest suitor lets them drift their separate ways. _

"_Who? Buck?" She quirks an eyebrow, gulping the beer set down in front of her by the bartender. Looking around, I try to find the man that just arrested all of my attention not two minutes earlier. It doesn't take long and when our eyes lock for half-a-second a shock of electricity rips through me. Something inside of me just instinctively seems to know. The question is, know what? What could this random American soldier possibly mean to me? _

"_Him." I motion with my eyes as she turns 'round, trusting her to catch on. Sam's quite clever when it comes to reading my thoughts. It's the only reason I found myself so quickly bonded to a Yank nurse far too excited to go to war for my taste. Still, crazy American or not, she knows exactly who I've got my eyes on and laughs under her breath as she turns back for another gulp of mead. _

"_That's Joe." She smirks into the glass. "Miserable little bastard. You **would** go for him." _

_Smacking her arm, I lean back against the bar and try not to find him in the crowd again. _

"_He can't be that awful." I'm not looking for him, I tell myself as my eyes scan the room, I'm not looking for him. Still, I can't help feeling slightly disappointed when chance fails to bring our eyes together again. _

"_Are you already defending him? You haven't even met." The smirk grows to an amused grin and I shake my head. Americans can be so ridiculous. _

"_I only meant…he seems…" Shrugging, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and watch the couples flowing in and out of each other on the floor. The song, 'Straighten Up and Fly Right' just hit the radio waves a few weeks ago and it's been a smashing success ever since. The band on stage tonight is no King Cole Trio, but they've got enough swing to make the song work. Absently, my hips sway to the beat, dress swooshing lightly around my calves. _

"_Devastatingly handsome in his Class-A's? Don't they all?" Laying the back of her hand across her forehead, Samantha pretends to swoon, mocking me something awful. Shaking my head, I roll my eyes to the ceiling this time and turn my gaze away from her. _

"_You Yanks, I swear…" But just as my eyes find the crowd again, it's parting to make way for Joe. Suddenly he's right in front of me and the amusement on my face has fallen away from surprise. Swiping the cigarette from between his lips, he holds out his free hand to take mine, smiling with a kind of gentle confidence that makes my heart stutter. _

"_You wanna dance?" He asks, leaning down so I can hear him over the music. The rough warmth of his hand in mine swirls through my senses with the scent of his aftershave cologne and I know then I'm down for the count. With a soft smile I nod, trying not to look too much of anything. Surprised. Demure. Flirtatious. Naïve. Willing. Somehow it all seems so obvious on my skin anyway. Joe however remains completely unphased. Stubbing his cigarette in a tray on the bar, he leads me out onto the floor. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Sam's eyebrows flicking upwards suggestively just before the crowd drags her out of my line of vision. _

_I've danced with over a dozen men tonight. All of them American, all looking to get lucky for the evening. Each pick-up line has been dismissed with an apologetic smile, shot down with an airy laugh. But from the moment Joe's hand finds my waist, this feels different. I love that he isn't playing games with me, isn't trying to dress this up. He knows what he wants and he's fearless about the chase. 'The Way You Look Tonight' begins to play and everything else melts away. Neither of us speaks for the longest time, just sways and studies the other. _

_He's even more beautiful close up. I find myself jealous of his perfect complexion, so fair it's nearly exuding a light of its own. The curve of his flushed pink mouth is fascinating and I can't help thinking I've never seen lips that look softer. Dark brown eyes set off his high cheekbones. They seem far older than his boyish face and slight frame, make me wonder what he's seen and in how many years. His neck is long, almost elegant, sculpted from the same luminous milk as the rest of him. The more I take in, the more lost I feel myself become. It takes a great amount of self-control not to reach up and trace the sharp angles of his face with my fingertips. _

"_You alright?" Suddenly, I'm yanked back to earth as he chuckles, looking me in the eyes with a smirk that pulls me out of everything I thought I knew. The cynical talk I'd been hearing all my life at home, the prejudice my parents had passed on to me about the war and Americans alike, the surefire ignorance that Britain needed nobody but itself. _

"_Yes, I was only…sorry." Trying to stop my cheeks from growing hot with embarrassment is like trying to keep the tides from changing. But I give it a go anyway. Reaching between us, he lifts my chin so that I'm unable to keep looking down. _

"_I just wanted to know your name." He explains and I feel an even bigger fool for realizing I had been completely oblivious to him asking me anything. But with the way he's looking at me, touching my jaw line with a tenderness he really doesn't look capable of at first glance, it's hard to hold on to any sense of resistance. _

"_Rebecca." I tell him effortlessly. "Rebecca James." _

"_Rebecca." He repeats the word with a satisfied smile, straightening his back as his hand returns to my waist. A tiny rush of adrenaline hits me at the sound of my name along his lips. If I could have any wish then it would be to hear him say it over and over again, a thousand different ways for the rest of the night. "I'm Joe." _

"_S'very nice to meet you, Joe." I smile back, relieved with myself for reclaiming any sense of grace. As the slow dance around us begins to slip into the full-hearted swing of 'It's Only a Paper Moon'. _

"_You mind if I buy you somethin' to drink?" There's something adorably unrefined about his accent and I can't stop myself from smiling. _

"_That would be lovely." Folding my hand into his again, we drift back to the bar before finding a booth. I'm sure we mean to get up and dance again. Find our friends at some point. Hell, get more drinks. But once we start talking, it's like a dam has been broken and a river inside of us (one we hadn't been aware of) is rushing free, completely out of our control. All that's left inside either of us is relief and hope and the desire that this will never end. _

"Do you miss him?" Dinah's gentle voice knocks me out of my daydream and I gasp a little, looking to my right. She's pulled up a chair, rocking her youngest brother as he sucks his thumb, head tucked into the crook of her shoulder. As impressive a surrogate mother as she makes, I wonder how severe the consequences will be further down the road. She'll never get her innocence back, her childhood. Once you've had to pretend you're the adult for long enough, there's no shifting back out of that role. I know that all too well.

_Aldbourne, England __Fall 1939_

_I may not be the scullery maid, but it's my job to take Father his tea. It's always mildly nerve-wracking because if anything spills it'll be my head. Knocking on his study door while trying to balance the tray is always a cumbersome ordeal but I've become pretty adept at it over the years. _

_Inside, it's the usual scene. Rain on the window panes, fire in the grate, Father hunched over his desk muttering about the farms whose crops we're in change of. It's been hard lately, rationing and the war effort has left us with less of everything, particularly labor in the fields. Every able bodied son and father have been called to join the ranks. The only reason mine hasn't is because of his polio. But usually this feels like more of a curse than a blessing. Especially now, with Mother taking up a job as a seamstress in town to help pay the bills and keep food on the table. With her gone the only person left to run the house and wait on my father is me. _

"_Can you believe this?" He spats, throwing a letter down at his desk forcefully while I pour his tea. Clearly he's in one of his nastier moods. I make a mental note to warn Mother when she gets home. "They want us to host some of those God damned Crikey children that are coming on that…that train."_

"_The kinder-transport?" Setting his tea in front of him, I do my best not to show any signs of disgust at his language. I have no idea if his beliefs about Jewish people are right or wrong, I'm only fourteen and hell, he's my father. But I do know that he doesn't have to use such offensive words. _

"_Yes." He growls, mixing the tea again even though I've already done so. "As if we don't have enough of our own problems as it is."_

_From the bits of BBC broadcast I've been able to pick up, from the talk I've heard around town and the news headlines in the square, I'm quite sure that Germany's Jews have much bigger problems on their plate than rationing and solicitations for war bonds. But I know better than to say anything even remotely suggestive of their plight. My father simply won't allow it in his house and wouldn't hesitate to backhand me if I tried. Instead, I just nod and ask him if there's anything else I can get for him. _

"_I'm fine." He waves me away, "Go look after your brother." _

_Nodding again, I slip out, trying to ignore the slurs I can hear him mumbling under his breath as I leave. It's always been this way and growing up in a house full of hate can blur the lines between right and wrong. But lately, with the Nazi party rising up just a few hundred kilometers away and all the rumors about ghettos and trains…I don't even know what I believe any more. I just know that when my father talks like that it makes my stomach churn with an icy unease. But I'm not sure I want to host Jewish children in our house any more than he does. So how much less of a monster can I be than him?_

"Who?" All I have to offer Dinah is a quizzical smile as my heart sags with guilt. I wonder if life wouldn't have been easier for her and her siblings if someone in England had sponsored their passage on the Kindertrain.

"The man you think of when you smile like that." She responds as if it's obvious, as if I can't honestly think I'm fooling anyone. "Mama used to smile like that, when she was thinking of Papa."

I'm trying so hard not to cry that my whole face hurts. I desperately wish someone would have reached out and saved these children from witnessing the horrors that they have. Maybe they would have ended up at my house and my father would have been forced to wake up to the truth. That we were all just human beings. That none of us deserved to be so frightened of one another or tortured like science experiments.

"I do." My voice is a whisper as unshed tears constrict my throat, but I'm still forcing some semblance of a smile. Talking to this girl now fills me with a guilt I'm all too familiar with. A guilt I sat with for weeks, months even, before finally listening to my heart. The fact that I had ever even hesitated in rejecting my father's views made me want to be sick. But I had, and those memories were perhaps the worst of all.

"_You think he'll be there next week?" I'm nearly skipping down the dark road, lit only intermittently by a few streetlamps. The aid station is located inside the airfield, which happens to sit down the same country lane that ends with my house. I've had crushes on boys before, but this is different. This is like flying on the ground and I feel as though I could laugh myself to sleep. _

"_Probably." Sam shrugs, taking another sip of the water she'd snatched on our way out. "But sometimes they have night marches and field exercises. All sorts of silly war things."_

"_Oh…" As my bubbly attitude deflates from this news, she backtracks a little, hoping to salvage my love struck drunkenness. _

"_Well, he'll come back 'round eventually. They always do. 'Specially when they meet a girl worth coming back for." With a suggestive wink, Sam nudges me playfully and I feel myself start to float again. Then she really does it. Goes and tears the light in my veins to pieces. "I just can't believe of all the guys eyeing you tonight you chose the hard-ass, skinny Jew." _

_She goes on down the street, nursing her water and cigarette, laughing with drunken enthusiasm. But I'm frozen in place some yards back, guts twisting painfully against the confines of my abdomen. _

_For three weeks I decline Samantha's invitations to go out on the town with her and the boys. Nothing should change after our conversation about Joe…but it does. Suddenly I feel paralyzed, terrified to make a move in any direction. How can I look at Joe and not hear every hateful thing Father has ever said to me about 'his people'? How could I sit there and pretend anything normal might exist between us with a family like mine and a heritage like his? _

_Either way, he's still a soldier. Nothing but another trigger-happy, crass young American. And he'll be leaving soon, what could possibly make me want to get attached? Probably just the fact that nothing had ever swayed me so profoundly as Joe had the moment my eyes found his across the dance floor. I didn't trust myself to be around again and resist my feelings. If I went out and saw him that would be the end of everything I had ever known and was expected to stay loyal to. So, like a coward I stayed put in my home and waited on my father. But those three weeks were like torture. _

"Did they take him too?" Dinah's pale forehead wrinkles with disheartened sympathy and she reaches out to take my hand. I'm amazed at the warmth still bright and alive within her after having her hometown invaded by the Germans. After her own father went 'missing'. After being forced into hiding and the role of mother at such a young age. None of it seems to have stained her faith or darkened her light.

"No." I squeeze her hand in mine, forcing a smile to surface even as the tears continue to wage a battle for dominance. "They would have. But his mama protected him, like your mama protected you."

_Aldbourne, England __May 1944_

_Fights start in town nearly every night. It's been that way ever since the Americans rolled in and I'm quite sure the old folk here couldn't hate it more. We're a traditional lot in Aldbourne. Keep to your business and let us keep to ours. But for months now it's been the Air Force antagonizing the Paratroops, the Yanks having it out with the Brits, the boys just getting knackered and brawling for the hell of it. Tonight it's the 82nd Airborne ruffling the feathers of the 101st. _

"_What d'you suppose it is those eagles are always screaming?" One of them wonders out loud, staggering through the pub with his friend._

"_Help me! Help me!" The other cackles loudly, sloshing his ale down the back of one of the boys, who I've come to know only as 'Wild Bill'. Big mistake. In seconds half a dozen of them are throwing punches and pretty soon it's absolute chaos inside. Men being thrown against tables, glasses breaking, the stale smell of beer staining everything. _

_Sam and I make it out onto the cobblestone street fairly quickly, though it's still slippery from the day's rain. She lights a cigarette, mumbling about what a bunch of idiots men can be and I'm laughing along, kind of glad to exchange the smoke and heat of the pub for a cool, fresh breeze. In fact, I'm about to point this out, but my eyes snag on the window and all speech seems to break apart into meaningless mush. _

_Joe's in there, trying to take on three guys at once and getting through with fair success given that he's one of the leanest guys in his company. Honestly, you take one look at him and everything inside of you yearns to feed him. But watching him like this, seeing the rough and tough talk he's always dishing out burst into something real is awakening a whole different set of yearnings inside of me. Get to him, protect him, love him. When one of them finally twists Joe's arm behind his back, their punches are dealt in rapid succession and I nearly rush the door. Samantha's hand is the only thing keeping me back and thankfully, all four of them get kicked out a few moments later. _

_With a sigh, Sam lets my arm go just as Joe catches sight of us. He's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at it in disgust. It may be pitch black out, but I'm not stupid, I know what's all over his hand and lips. And just in case I didn't…_

"_Hey, how's that blood taste snip-dick?" One of them shouts, all three stumbling down the street like toddlers. Their drunken laughter follows and it takes the combined strength of Sam and myself to keep Joe from going after them. _

"_You wanna taste some, I'll be more than fuckin' happy to help you out!" He screams back even as she struggles to pull his arms and I to push his chest. He's not exactly know for having the best temper in the world, but I've never seen him this angry before. I'm sure I'm going to hell for liking it, but there's something beautiful about the red flushing his cheeks and neck, the passion that burns in his bruised eyes, the way he can't seem to stay out of the fire no matter how badly it burns him. Still, I have to wonder what on God's green earth has him fighting so venomously. _

"_Joe, come on. They're just a bunch of drunk, pigeon wannabes." I mumble, trying to get him to focus on me as they throw more insults and slurs down the street after us. He barely hears me, forcing my feet to shuffle backwards a little as his own press on. But I'm not backing down. "Hey, _**look at me**_. Forget them."_

_For the first time in fifteen minutes his blood begins to come down from its boiling point. When his eyes find me there's the slightest bit of calm wrestling with the wild animal still raging around inside of him. Laying a hand on his cheek, I can't help but notice he's still breathing heavy. _

"_Come on, you can't go back to barracks like this. Let's get you cleaned up." _

_Though she's let go of Joe's arm by now, I can sense Sam's frown in her voice. _

"_Um…I guess I'll just…see you guys tomorrow." She looks between us for a moment before making her own way down the road, catching up to a few other nurses along the way. With Joe's hand in mine I barely even realize she's left, or was even with us to begin with. All I know is that his hand is warm and calloused and the knuckles are bruised. Fighting an embarrassing smile, I lead him around to the back of the bar and have him sit on the back steps while I dash inside for ice and napkins. One of the cooks is a good friend of my father's and doesn't even ask questions if I pretend to be interested in how his children are doing. By the time I get back outside, Joe's lighting up his second cigarette. _

"_I was beginning to think you'd left me back here for the sheep." He chuckles as I kneel in front of him, motioning to the grazing fields just over my shoulder. _

"_Well, it's a good thing you decided to light up a cigarette then." I smile softly, wrapping a handful of ice in some napkins and leaning forward to lay the bundle gingerly over his rapidly swelling eye. "They can smell blood."_

_I whisper the last bit as though it's some kind of dangerous secret and we share a laugh that feels wrapped in electricity. In the moments that follow, we're both quiet, the same way we were during that first dance. I'm wetting napkins and dabbing at the blood that's still fresh across his skin. I can feel his dark eyes watching me and it's making my skin feel a size too small, itchy and hot even in the cool night air of an English spring. It's clear that we have feelings for one another, but between my own stupid hesitance and his field training, this is only the third time we've met. Somehow, it doesn't feel that way. All at once, I could swear we were just introduced and have been friends for half-a-dozen lifetimes. _

"_You clean a cut pretty good for someone who doesn't wanna be a nurse." He teases me. We've had this conversation a few times. He doesn't really understand my aversion to the war, particularly the Red Cross and I can't say I blame him. 'Aren't you pissed off?' He always asks, 'How can you let them take so much from you without even trying to fight?' That's the difference between me and Joe. I was brought up to run from a fight. He was brought up with the fight always running after him. _

"_What was that they were calling you?" It's my nature to change the topic of conversation if I start to feel uncomfortable. Joe picked up on it a while ago and usually laughs to himself when I do, before calling me out. This time however, he just shakes his head and looks over my shoulders toward the sheep and moonlit hills. I can see the outline of his jaw more prominently as it clenches together. When he's finally able to string words together, they're little more than a frustrated mumble._

"_Just gettin' on me about bein' a Jew. Story of my fuckin' life…ahhh." Pulling away from my touch, he hisses a little as my wet napkin hits open wound. Sitting back on my calves, I toss it to the side, picking up a new one and starting to get it wet. _

"_They shouldn't say things like that." I mumble, though I'm not sure how much it really counts. I avoided Joe for three weeks after finding out about his heritage. I still don't speak out against my father when he spouts off about them. Even as the words are leaving my mouth, I can't even look Joe in the eyes. But his own anger keeps him blind to the fact. _

"_S'not as bad as it could be." His eyes are still on those hills. "Not as bad as what they're doing to guys like me in Germany."_

"_How do you know that?" It's a knee-jerk reaction from years of listening to my parents oppose Churchill and turn a blind eye to Hitler's tyranny. Anyone with ears and eyes knows the Nazis are making life hell for the Jews and guilt sets in the minute the words have escaped my mouth. But a lifetime brewing in the hatred of my own house can't be shed overnight. Looking up, I open my mouth to apologize but he looks so lost I lose all capability of speech. For a few moments we just sit there with each other and our own private wars._

_When he speaks his voice is quiet, almost vulnerable in a way I've never thought possible. Joe's a lot of things, but vulnerable has never seemed like one of them. Until now. _

"_I have family there."_

"_Oh…" The pieces start to fall together and I struggle to keep my hands working steadily as though this doesn't change things. I'm not sure what to say, grappling around and spitting out the first thing that comes to mind. "Have you ever been?"_

"_I was born there." He tells me quietly. This time my hands stop their work and my thighs fall to rest back on my calves. Looking up at him, I blink a few times before reaching out for one of his own hands. _

"_God, I'm so sorry."_

_His eyebrows crease together, but I can tell he's just confused. I don't know how really, anyone else would be sure that I'd just pissed him off. Somehow I know better, somehow I'm sure. _

"_For what?" Even his voice sounds like vinegar. There's nothing inside of me that's afraid of him or entertaining the possibility that I've upset him. I'm not sure how that confidence manifested but it's there all the same and allows my hand to stay loyal to his. _

"_That you had to leave. No one should be forced out of their home that way." _

"_Germany is _**not**_ my fuckin' home. It never was." Standing suddenly, his hand slips out of mine. From the sound of him you'd think that I just attempted a cruel joke. In his defense, it probably feels something like that. Grabbing the napkins, both bloody and clean, I stand and offer a few silent nods of my head. Reaching inside his pocket, he grapples around for a cigarette but finds only an empty cartridge. Not a surprising fact given that it's Saturday and the Americans get just seven packs per week. It might be enough if Joe didn't smoke more than a chimney and use them to gamble with. But as it stands…_

"_One second." Holding up a finger to indicate that I'll be right back, I dash into the kitchen again and beg Terry for whatever he can spare. Within less than a minute I return successfully, handing Joe two home-rolled fags accompanied by an air of vainglorious pride. He takes them, cheeky smirk in tow, mumbling his thanks as he resumes his seat on the back steps. _

_This time I invite myself to sit beside him. For a moment I just sit there, captivated by the way he flips his lighter open. By the way the spark ignites the black of his eyes. The way he tucks his Zippo back in its pocket while simultaneously letting out a puff of smoke. He's all grit and dirt, but there's a an elegance to this one little action. I'm not sure I'll ever tell him that, but I'll sure as hell never tell him to stop either. When I finally get something like clear, conscious thought back, I can't keep the curiosity from jumping off my tongue. _

"_How come you left?" I don't have to remind him of what I'm referring to. He's painfully aware. I can tell this is something he doesn't usually like to get chatty about. But when we're alone, it's surprising what we'll admit to one another. What we seem to want the other to know. _

"_My parents got scared. Ma mostly." He shrugs like it's nothing to get excited about. But I can see it in the way he's avoiding my eyes, the memories are weighted down with fear and guilt and the kind of chaos no one likes to get caught up in. The kind that swoops in like a whirling dervish and rips away every foundation you thought you could trust. "You know the really fucked up thing about it?" _

_I stay silent, giving him the space to say what he needs to and trying not to get too drawn in by the cynical chuckle that drips from his lips as he blows out another puff of smoke. _

"_I really didn't believe her. None of us did. We all thought she was fuckin' nuts…" Shaking his head, he takes another drag and looks down at his hands. Picks a bit of dirt from under a nail. "…It was her God damn brother we stopped hearin' from first." _

_Without really stopping to think about whether I should or shouldn't, I curl my hands around his arm, lay my head on his shoulder. Whisper a useless apology. But he seems grateful, reaching over to squeeze one of my hands hard enough to hurt just a little. We sit there for a long time, letting the words he's spoken and the night sky sink into us. I finally feel as though I understand why he asked someone to put a gun in his hands and teach him how to kill. I get why he's always on me about joining the effort. And I think once and for all, I've shed whatever ignorance my parents tried to pass on to me. _

I remember then, I brought a few candles for the attic and begin to fish them out. It's been a long time since candles have been easy to find in Tillburg and I try to sneak as many out of the station as I can for both the Andersons and the Cohens. Tonight, Dinah's usual gratitude is accompanied by an idea.

"We could use them to say a prayer." She smiles, eyes brightening before I even light the wicks. "I know one for those recovering from an illness. And for the wandering lost."

Nodding, I take the last candle burning and use it to light the others as Dinah murmurs her thanks for her mother's slowly returning health.

"Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, Who bestows good things on the unworthy, and has bestowed on me every goodness. May he continue to bestow on us every goodness. Selah." Her eyes flutter closed for a moment and I can almost see her sending the words up to heaven. I can't help wondering how anyone could see evil in such strong faith, such pure grace. When her eyes open again, she looks to me and tilts her head curiously. "Your husband, what is his name?"

I don't have the heart to correct her, nor the strength to beat away my own bashful smile. It's not as though I've never entertained the idea of marrying Joe, but to hear it out loud like that, as if it's already a sure thing…that's the best Christmas present anyone could give me.

"Joseph." I tell her, still trying to reign in the exuberance splashed across my face. Letting his name play on my lips only makes it worse.

"Then this is for Joseph." She assures me, still gently rocking her younger brother. "May it be Your will, Lord, our God and the God of our ancestors, that You lead us toward peace, guide our footsteps toward peace, and make us reach our desired destination for life, gladness, and peace. May You rescue Joseph from the hand of every foe, ambush along the way, and from all manner of punishments that assemble to come to earth. May You send blessing in his handiwork, and grant him grace, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all who see him. May You hear the sound of our humble request because You are God Who hears prayer requests. Blessed are You, Adonai, Who hears prayer."

A deep breath fills my lungs as her words wrap around me and though I know he's still in danger, though my arms still cry out to wrap around him, I feel more peace than I have in months.


End file.
